


Settle Down, It'll All Be Clear

by theswearingkind



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Nashville Predators, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Nashville wasn't quite home to James, and one time it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle Down, It'll All Be Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calclutterfuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calclutterfuck/gifts).



> This was written for calclutterfuck's prompt of "James Neal/Paul Martin: Nealer hates the Preds." 
> 
> calclutterfuck, it was so much fun writing this fic for you! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely RL bestie for reading this for me and offering feedback on some tricky bits. 
> 
> Title from Phillip Phillips's "Home," because I am 1) unoriginal and 2) a sap.

He says all the right things, obviously. 

No, he wasn’t expecting it. Yes, he was surprised. Of course he’s sad to move on from Pittsburgh, he’s had so many great memories here and he signed the extension because he wanted to stay, but that’s the game and he’s excited for a new opportunity. Nashville’s a good team, a great city, he’s looking forward to trying to be that offensive spark they seem like they’ve been needing. Maybe Fisher’s wife can introduce him to a hot country singer, ha ha, that James Neal, wish he’d been this easy to talk to when he played for us. 

The trade was—whatever. The writing was on the wall, clearly, even if he hadn’t really thought Rutherford was going to pull the trigger right up until he heard the shot. The team, though. The team they sent him to is just a fucking low blow.

James always _hated_ playing in Nashville. Growing the game is all well and good, but why fucking bother with a place where it doesn’t even get cold enough for ice to stay frozen in the winter, where the humidity fucks with everything all the time.

The only thing he ever liked about playing at Bridgestone was the red flash of his goals ripping past Rinne, two in a row to open the Stars’ season in ‘09, back before it all fell apart in Dallas and the Stars put him on a plane to Pennsylvania. 

That plane ride turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him, sure, but he doesn’t have such high hopes for the next one.

There’s no Paulie in Tennessee, after all.

*

_One._

The season starts with a whimper, a long string of losses, mostly in OT—good enough for a point here and there, but no better. 

James is still pissed about the trade, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about the team’s record, _his_ record. He knows there are guys in the league, even a few big-name guys, who aren’t so tied up in winning, but he’s never understood it. They’re NHL players. Competition is literally their job.

James is doing his job pretty damn well, actually, playing strong and putting up points, even though it’s tougher without Geno to his left, streaking up the ice in a blur of sheer talent. James is never going to say no to a points streak, but it’s harder to appreciate than it should be—harder than it used to be, that’s for goddamn sure. What does it even matter that he’s getting points if they can’t pull out a fucking win in the meantime?

Lavy takes to switching out his center every couple of games, trying to find the right fit, but so far no one’s really sticking. The only upside to that clusterfuck is that they’re moving the centers down, not him, and that none of the boys are giving him shit for it. The media’s getting kind of mouthy about it, but what the fuck else is new. 

Shea just keeps saying the same shit about new systems needing time to gel. It doesn’t sound as good from him as it would have from Sid.

The worst part is how unsurprised everybody on the team seems—how losing is just what they do in Nashville, apparently. It’s not like anyone really thought they were going to be tearing it up out there right away, James even less than everybody else, but at least he’s still pissed off about the losses. Maybe because, unlike most of them, he still remembers what it was like to win.

He’s already done his time on a team that couldn’t make it to the postseason, and at least Dallas had a Cup to look back on while they were busy tanking down the stretch. Yeah, the Pens couldn’t buy a consistent playoff run in any of the years James was there, but at least they weren’t golfing in April the past couple of seasons like the fucking Perds have been. Like it’s looking like they will be again. 

Fuck the Central, seriously.

They finally manage to get their first win at home, though, in front of an inexplicably full house, and that doesn’t suck. It sucks even less that it’s against the Avs, and that they manage to chase Varmalov, and that James has a three-point night, a fucking beauty of a short-hander and a pair of assists. 

The best part is that they didn’t win because the other team collapsed. A win’s a win, obviously, but it’s always best when it’s his team being better, not the other guys being worse. And the Avs had played fine tonight, put up a respectable fight, but for some reason, everything the Preds had been doing until now, everything that hadn’t quite clicked so far, just _worked_.

The boys all want to go out and celebrate afterward, and James is right there with them. It’s been a shitty start to the season, but they won a fucking hockey game tonight: there’s no reason he shouldn’t and lots of reasons he should. He gets Mikey and Shea a round as a thank-you for the assists, and he’s just settled back into the booth with a beer when he feels his phone vibrate in his pants pocket.

When he pulls it out, he sees he’s missed a fuck-ton of texts going back a couple of hours, to right after the clock ran out. His family and a couple of the guys from home sent a few, but most of them are from guys he knows around the league—guys who know exactly what it’s like to play that long with only losses to show for it, what it’s like to finally get the win.

Over half of them are from Pittsburgh; the Pens had an off night tonight, he remembers. It’s nothing too special, just guys congratulating him on the points and chirping him about the losing streak in a way they couldn’t have yesterday, when it was still on-going.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s looking for until he doesn’t find it. 

Twenty fucking texts, and none of them are from Paul.

Just like that, his good mood’s broken, and James wants—he just wants to go _home_ , Jesus. Not to the too-big, too-new apartment he’s been renting in downtown Nashville, not even to his off-season place back in Whitby. James wants to leave this bar and magically end up back at his house in Pittsburgh—not the decoy he only ever set foot in a couple of times a week, but his _real_ house. The one with his fucking boyfriend in it.

Ex-boyfriend. Whatever. 

*

_Two._

The Pens come to Nashville in the middle of November, the first time the two teams have faced off since James’s trade. Pittsburgh’s riding a hot streak that has them sitting first in the Metropolitan, just a few points out of first in the entire damn league. It’s still early, but things are looking good for them, James thinks. 

He’s—he’s happy for them, mostly, even though listening to the media fucking yammer on about the Penguins’ new depth and their revitalized locker room still feels like taking a hit straight into the boards. 

James is trying, though. He really is.

The game opens a three-day break for the Preds and a two-day break for the Pens. That’s the kind of lucky scheduling trick that just about never happens, so James has already been scouting good bars to take the Pittsburgh guys out to after the game.

Well. Some of the Pittsburgh guys, anyway. 

The ones who still answer his texts, who don’t seem to think that him going to Nashville meant they could never fucking _talk_ again. The ones who didn’t think it was best that they just “take some time,” whatever the fuck that means. 

Still, it’ll be good to see the guys on the Penguins again some other way than the NHL Network. James misses playing hockey with them—Christ, does he miss playing Pittsburgh hockey— but he misses just hanging out with them even more. 

And there’s always a chance that—that the other guys change their minds and decide to come out with them. That being in the same place, even for just a little while, will make things seem more doable, less all-or-nothing, and after a few beers, who knows what happens? A few beers have, historically speaking, been really good for him. Them.

Yeah. No harm in a couple of beers with old friends. Hell, it would look weird if Paulie—if his buds from Pittsburgh _didn’t_ come out after their first game against James’s new team.

Lavy takes it easy on them at morning skate, just running a few light drills, and James can’t tell if it’s because he wants them to be fresh or because he’s looked at their record and knows there’s no real chance they win this game. James is pretty grateful for it either way; he doesn’t want to be worn the fuck out tonight—for the game _or_ for the after-party. 

Maybe especially for the after-party, if he’s being honest. He’s a professional and he wants to win, always, but there are eighty-two games in a season; it’s impossible to care that intensely about every single one. Impossible in Nashville, at least.

He runs on an adrenaline buzz the rest of the day, not really able to settle for his nap. He even cleans his place up a little—loading the used dishes in the dishwasher, moving his dirty clothes from the floor into the hamper. Putting fresh sheets on the bed. It had been a week or two, anyway, it was time.

His phone vibrates loudly right before he’s about to head out on the ice for warm-up at Bridgestone. James almost doesn’t check it; pre-game texting isn’t really part of his routine, and routines have to be respected, even for a game they probably won’t win. 

Waiting would be the smart thing to do, probably. But the only person who ever texts him before a game is—

He types in the unlock code so fast he screws it up twice before he manages to get it right. 

_paulie get sick,_ he reads. _ear infection. no balance, can’t skate. not make trip._

It takes a minute for him to process the words, and another message pops up while he’s still staring at the screen. _thought you want to know._

It’s the second message, not the first, that has James’s fingers tightening involuntarily around the phone case. The first message is a gut-punch, but the second is—he can almost see the hesitance on Geno’s face as he sent it. More than hesitance; the fucking _pity_.

James slams the phone down in his locker so hard he hears something crack. He’ll probably have to get the screen replaced.

Beside him, Seth and Colin’s conversation cuts off abruptly, and there’s a long pause before Seth asks, carefully, “You alright, Nealer?” 

It doesn’t surprise James that Seth’s the one that asked; Jonesy’s always seemed old for his age. Maybe it’s all the pressure of having been groomed for the top of the draft for years and years, but even in just the little time James has known him, the kid’s always been weirdly mature, in a way that James still isn’t, really.

Case in fucking point.

James takes a deep breath, and then another. “I’m great,” he says, and his voice sounds furious and brittle even to his own ears. “I’m just fucking great.”

He catches a glimpse of himself before he heads out on the ice. 

He looks shitty in yellow.

*

 _Three_.

Management calls him in for a meeting right before the break for American Thanksgiving. His immediate thought is that it’s another trade, but—no, he had a four-point night against the defending Cup champs yesterday, and it was the second one this month. He’s not going anywhere.

Which is good, of course—the only thing worse than getting traded away would be to get traded away _again_.

It’s weird to think of Nashville as the better option, but. It is.

Poile is standing over Lavy’s desk, the two of them talking in low tones while a slim blonde woman does something on an iPad. James raps his knuckles twice on the doorframe to get their attention, and the woman—Katherine, maybe, he thinks—looks up and smiles at him broadly.

“James, please, come on in,” she says, gesturing to one of the plush chairs across from Lavy’s desk. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

“Now, first things first,” Poile says once James has gotten settled. “This isn’t about a trade.”

Just like that, the tightness he’s carried in his shoulders since he got the call loosens up. “Glad to hear it, sir,” he says, and he means it.

“It’s about a public relations issue,” Katherine says, taking over smoothly. “Nothing too serious, but we thought it was worth addressing now.” She flips the iPad around so that James can see the screen.

It’s a photo of him from before yesterday’s game, during warm-ups. He’s smiling, the camera capturing him in the process of flipping a puck over the glass to a little kid standing with her mom. 

He looks up at their expectant faces, then looks back at the photo on the tablet. It’s a wet dream of a publicity shot, honestly—the kid is cute, her mom kind of looks like the hot chick from the new _Star Trek_ movies, and this picture is of a name player on a six-game points streak doing something nice for them.  


Even just thinking that makes him feel like a douchebag, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

“I’m sorry,” James says finally. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at.” 

Poile exhales noisily. “Their jerseys, James.”

He looks back at the screen, and suddenly it clicks. “Oh.”

The little girl has a big 18 splashed across her back, and the mom is turned away from the camera just enough that it’s hard to tell whose number she has on—but they’re both definitely wearing Pens jerseys.

Which maybe wouldn’t be such a big deal on its own, but it’s a wide-angle shot. He can see other kids, kids in yellow, staring jealously, their faces creased with frowns and disappointment. 

No wonder they called him in.

“Look, I can—I can see what it looks like,” James admits. “But the kid had my jersey on—”

“Your old jersey,” Lavy cuts in, voice gone uncharacteristically hard.

James barely manages to avoid wincing at that. Fuck, of course he’d manage to say the one thing that could make the situation worse. “Right.”

“The problem, James,” Katherine says, not unkindly, “is that there were other children there with your jersey on. Your current jersey. Yet you went right to the one in the Penguins gear.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” he protests.

And it’s true—he really hadn’t seen the kids wearing his Preds jersey, had only seen the girl and her mom as he was headed off the ice after warm-up. It wasn’t like he’d seen all the other kids and just decided to ignore them. 

“Regardless,” Katherine presses on. “It doesn’t look good.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just—wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, you should’ve—” Poile starts, but Katherine cuts him off.

“David,” she says, voice sharp, and Poile goes silent. It’s impressive. “Luckily, this photo is from one of our guys,” she continues. “He’s only released the cropped version, so the—less flattering aspects won’t be visible. And we’re scheduling you for a pre-Christmas media skate day with a bunch of Nashville kids; they’ll all get one of your jerseys. You can joke around with them, help them with their stick-handling.”

“Talk up the team,” Poile breaks in.

“Yes, David, that is implied,” Katherine says brusquely, looking like she can barely keep from rolling her eyes, and James take a second to be glad that something else is obviously going on here, because he’s pretty sure that Katherine’s on his side only because Poile isn’t.

They let him go after a few more less-than-subtle hints about team unity. He’s got a work-out afterward, then a radio interview, and he manages to mostly put the meeting out of his mind.

Until that night, anyway, when the picture shows up in his Twitter feed, courtesy of the official Preds account. 

_Check out Preds winger @jneal_18 saying hi to some old friends! #memories #gladhesherenowthough #pointstreak_

Something’s different, though; it’s not quite the same shot they showed him earlier. The angle has changed, just enough so that the kid’s face is a little more hidden, his number a little more in-focus. And he can see the back of the mom’s jersey, too—

Fuck.

She’s wearing Paulie’s jersey. For some reason, James had just assumed she was wearing one of his.

Paulie still follows him on Twitter, James thinks. What would he do if he saw this? Would he think James gave the kid the puck because her mom was wearing Paul’s jersey? Would that seem pathetic? Or would he think—

James groans, dropping his head into his hands.

It’s got a bunch of retweets already, and James only hesitates for a few seconds before he adds another one. That’s what Katherine would say to do anyway, he thinks—no guy still pining for his old team would be so public about it, probably. 

And he’s not pining. Not anymore. 

Not for the Pens, anyway.

*

_Four._

His point streak ends the first week of December, and it sucks. 

James has been around the League long enough to know not to put too much stock in hot streaks; they come and they go, and usually they’re as much about luck as they are about anything he’s actually doing. It’s the same with cold streaks; sometimes guys just get snake-bit. No one’s happy about it, but it happens, and there’s no point in getting too bent out of shape. Stick with the fundamentals, do the little things: they’re clichés for a reason, and it’s because they’re true. 

But it’s a lot easier to remember that kind of stuff on a hot streak than on a cold one. And James is on a hell of a cold one. 

Ten games, ten fucking games, since the Blues broke his point streak, and since then he’s only picked up two points—both of them assists, both of them secondary, and neither the kind of thing a top-line winger should be even satisfied with, let alone excited about. It’s getting to him.

They were in Chicago last night. James kept fucking up, taking stupid penalties, just handing the Hawks chance after chance, and it’s not like they’re a team who really need the help. Peks would hardly look at him after the game, even though there wasn’t a single person in the locker room—hell, in the United Center—who thought the loss was on the goalie.

No, they all knew _exactly_ who to blame. And they were right.

They’re at home against the Blues again tonight, and James is just starting to strip out of his suit before warm-ups when one of the assistants pulls him aside and delivers the news: he’s been scratched. 

He honestly thinks he must have misheard at first. Teams don’t scratch their top-liners for a cold streak—demote them, maybe, or cut their minutes back, but not scratch them. They just don’t.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says finally, once it’s sunk in. It’s inappropriate, he knows—assistant or not, Phil is his coach—but seriously, what the fuck.

Phil frowns at him. “James—”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Phil?” he repeats, trying to keep his voice down. “I’m fucking _scratched_?”

“You’ve been playing like shit,” Phil says bluntly. “Last night was a clusterfuck, and a lot of it was on you. The way Crawford’s been playing lately, we probably still would’ve lost, but it shouldn’t have been a blowout. Four penalties, James. Four.”

James clenches his jaw. He doesn’t need the reminder.

“This isn’t about the cold streak, Nealer,” Phil continues. “We’ve all been there. This is about you getting pissed off and doing stupid shit that fucks things up for the rest of your team. This is your team, James,” he finishes. “It’s time to start acting like it.”

James swallows hard. Nods.

Phil nods back at him, then slaps him on the shoulder. “Now go put your jacket back on, wish the boys good luck, and get your ass up to the press box.”

He’s not even wrong, is the thing. If he were wrong, at least James could feel justified in being mad about it, but—he’s not wrong.

It still fucking sucks. All the time and effort James has put into changing his game, being a smarter player, not such a hothead, and all it takes is one fucking night to get him knocked out of the lineup on a team where he’s supposed to be the go-to guy. 

At least Phil didn’t say the words, James thinks, fidgeting in his chair as he stares down at the ice, watching the teams head out for warm-up. At least he didn’t say—

“Well, it’s about hockey sense,” the voice of a commentator breaks in, TV monitor flaring to life beside him. “We’ve heard it all through his career, and this is another example—James Neal is a good player, he’s got a hell of a shot, but his hockey sense leaves something to be desired.”

“I think you’re dead-on,” the guy sitting beside him replies. He’s an ugly old fuck, James thinks. “This is, what, Neal’s sixth, seventh year in the League? You’ve got to know how to handle the pressure by now. All the skill in the world won’t keep your team off the PK if your hockey sense doesn’t keep you out of the box.”

They keep on like that for the next couple of minutes, just another verse in a song James would give his fucking front teeth to never have to hear again. He wishes he could get up and turn the monitors off, but if he did that, the team would probably scratch him again for bad sportsmanship or something, which—no. He’s already lost one game to being a dumbass; he’s not going to lose two, not when he’s practically chomping at the bit to be down there on the ice with his team.

Still. James didn’t know it was possible to say the words “hockey sense” this many times in a four-minute segment.

His phone vibrates right as the commentators switch over to talking about the dirty hit Backes laid on some third-liner in Winnipeg last week. James almost drops the phone when he sees the name on the display. 

Paulie.

 _fuck them_ , the text says. That’s it.

James doesn’t get it. Fuck who? He and Paulie haven’t talked about anyone or anything in months. Was this—was this even meant for him? Jesus, that would suck.

The phone buzzes again while he’s freaking out. _those commentators don’t know what they’re talking about, nealer, fuck them._

Holy shit. That must mean that Paulie is—that Paulie’s watching the game. James’s game.

There’s no reason he’d be doing that, unless—

Unless.

*

_Five._

The Preds fly into Pittsburgh to end a three-game road trip, and if it still feels a little bit like coming home, well. James had some great years here. That’s okay. 

“You doing alright?” Stals asks him as they touch down at Pittsburgh International. 

“Alright?” James repeats blankly. He doesn’t actually know Stals that well, and the question kind of came out of nowhere.

Stals nods out the window at the Pittsburgh skyline. “The first time I was back in Chicago, it was pretty hard,” he says. The look on his face says that might be a little bit of an understatement. 

James thinks about it for a second. He does miss Pittsburgh, yeah, but it’s not what it was. “I’m good, man,” he says at last. “I mean, it’s good to be back, don’t get me wrong, but. I’m good.”

Still. Pittsburgh has some things that Nashville just never will.

He and Paul have been texting again, every once in a while, just casual— _how’s your week going, did you see the Yotes collapse last night_ , that kind of stuff. James is trying not to read too much into it, but it’s hard not to; after months of nothing at all, anything feels huge.

And the game isn’t until tomorrow, and they’re free all tonight. It kind of feels like this is his chance.

 _can’t wait to see you_ , he taps out right before they de-plane. It’s pushing things, probably, but he sends the message before he can stop himself. Then he stashes his phone at the very bottom of his carry-on, where he can’t get to it without pawing through all of his stuff like a desperate loser.

There’s a light skate, then a film session, and then Lavy sends them back to the hotel to rest up before the early start in the morning. Some of the guys talk about going out to eat, but James slips by them and hails a cab instead. Half an hour later, he’s back on his street, opening the door to a house he hasn’t set foot in since last July. 

He has a cleaning lady come by once a month, so it’s not completely terrible, but it feels—sterile. Like no one actually lives there. Which is accurate, obviously; that was practically true even when he was still playing for the Pens. 

Officially, he still owns this house because it hasn’t sold. It’s a bad market, he tells his parents, when they ask. It’s technically true, but it’s totally a lie in spirit. The real reason that the house hasn’t sold is because James never actually put it up for sale. 

It just seemed way too final. Like an admission that he was gone for good. 

It really is stupid to keep it, though. Especially when it’s not even the Pittsburgh house he wants to be in.

Right on cue, he hears his phone start ringing way at the bottom of his bag. He just manages to dig it out before it switches over to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“There are lights on in your house, did you know that?” Paulie says in place of a greeting. He always does that, James thinks, starts conversations halfway in and just expects people to keep up. It’s annoying as fuck, usually.

But right now—

Right now, James has to take a minute just to let the sound of Paul’s voice soak in. He’s fucking missed that stupid Minnesota accent so much. 

“James?” he hears Paulie say, prompting.

“Yeah, the lights, I know,” James replies quickly. Before Paulie can hang up. “I just got in.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “You’re at your house?”

James snorts a little at that. “Did you think I was going to stay at the hotel instead?” he asks, aiming for dry and missing it, he thinks, by about a kilometer.

Paul exhales heavily, the rush of air crackling in James’s ear. “I didn’t know if you still owned the place.”

Jesus. Really?

Maybe James _has_ been reading things wrong for the past month after all: thinking that the texts meant they were going somewhere again, that Paulie was over his distance-and-age freak-out. That he was ready to actually _listen_ this time when James said they could make it work. But if he’s—if he’s that indifferent to James, doesn’t even know whether James sold the house he bought on Paulie’s own street—

Then maybe the texts were just—just Paulie being polite to a former teammate, that’s all.

He’s still trying to put words together to respond when Paulie says, quiet, voice a little wrecked, “I tried not to drive that way too much, if I could help it. It was too hard.”

Oh, James thinks, heart speeding up in his chest. _Oh._

“Let me come over,” he says in a rush. “Paulie. Please let me come over.”

Paul sighs again. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Fuck that, it’s a great idea,” he says, startling a laugh out of Paul. “I miss you.”

“No hot country singers in Nashville after all?” Paul asks, wry, but there’s something serious underneath it—the way he always sounded when he was saying shit about James being too young, or too straight, or too far away.

And it’s not like James hasn’t hooked up since Paulie dumped him. It’s been nearly nine months, so yeah, obviously he’s hooked up, and it was fine. Fun, even, he had a good time, and they all seemed to have a good time, too. 

But he never stopped missing Paul. Never stopped wanting him back.

“Don’t be a dumbass, Paulie,” he says gently. “Let me come over.”

“My folks are visiting me for a couple days,” Paulie says, which isn’t a no, at least.

“Then you come over here.”

Paul huffs out another little laugh. “Do you even have anything in your house?”

“Fuck you, I have stuff.” He glances around. “There’s a couch. A TV.” James pauses. Might as well go all-in, he thinks; either this happens right now, tonight, or it probably doesn’t happen at all. “I still have a bed.”

Paul doesn’t say anything. James feels his stomach drop.

Then he hears the knock on the door. 

He knows it’s Paulie before he opens it. That doesn’t make it one bit less awesome when he actually sees Paulie standing there, phone still pressed to his ear, cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“How soon did you start walking over here?” James asks, not even trying to hide his grin.

“Shut up,” Paulie says, rolling his eyes, and yeah, awesome.

Everything that comes afterward—that’s pretty awesome, too. 

*

_+One._

It’s kind of stupid how easily it all comes together after that. Paulie gets over himself, more or less. James stops being a mopey little bastard. It still sucks being so far apart, obviously—Paulie wasn’t wrong about that—but they’re both millionaires, so. It’s not that big a deal, once they decide not to let it be.

The Preds don’t quite make the playoffs, and the Pens don’t quite win the Cup. But they both get closer than they would have if James hadn’t gone to Nashville, honestly.

He and Paulie spend a few days in Pittsburgh after the Pens get bounced, licking wounds and other things, hardly leaving the bedroom. James does manage to throw some clothes on long enough to put his hardly-used house up for sale; it has some good memories, finally, but it’s time to let it go.

Visits to family eat up the next few weeks, so it’s almost the end of July before they meet up again—in Nashville, this time. When Paulie walks out of the arrivals gate, the humidity has his t-shirt clinging to him before he even makes it over to the pick-up lane where James’s car is idling.

James remembers hating the Nashville humidity, once. What a difference a year makes.

“Hey, where are we going?” Paulie asks once they’re headed back south on I-65. “Your apartment’s the other way, Nealer.”

James grins at him, merging over a couple of lanes. “Not going to my apartment.”

Paulie’s expression turns blatantly hopeful at that. “Please tell me we’re headed to a Cracker Barrel, then.”

James laughs. “Not quite.” That sounds good, though, fuck. Tomorrow, definitely.

Twenty minutes later, he stops the car in front of a big house set back from the road by a short driveway. It’s not really the kind of house he sees a lot of in Brentwood, but it’s the only kind he was willing to let the realtor show him—red brick, with a steep roofline and a low flight of stairs leading up to a red door. Nothing fancy, not compared to the mansions just a street or two away.

But it’s as close to their house in Pittsburgh as he could get. It makes him a huge fucking sap, so what.

Paul climbs out of the car almost before James has it parked, familiar crooked smile spreading slowly across his face as he stares up at the house. 

James loves that smile. It’s a smile that says that Paul gets exactly what James was going for here, that he knows exactly what James wants it to mean. It’s a smile that says he’s on board.

“Welcome home, Paulie,” James says then, and goes to open the door.


End file.
